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TWO  PLAYS  AND 
A  PREFACE 


BY 


DELLA  J.  EVANS 


BOSTON 

RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE  GORHAM  PRESS 


Copyright  1921,  by  Delia  J.  Evans 


All  Rights  Reserved 


MADE  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


THB  GORHAM  PRESS,  BOSTON,  U.  S.  A. 


! 


CONTENTS 

Preface   .........................  5 

The  Rise  of  Comedy  .............  5 

The  One  Act  Play  in  America  .....  10 

«M—  R—  S"  .....................  17 

The  Younger  Son  .................  47 


3048959 


TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 


PREFACE 

THE  RISE  OF  COMEDY 

It  has  been  said  that  with  all  the  Greeks 
left  us  in  the  way  of  drama,  they  left  us  no 
high  comedy.  And  it  seems  the  Greeks  were 
not  the  only  ones  who  shied  at  having  much 
to  do  with  it.  'Tis  a  far  cry  from  "Ralph 
Royster  Doyster"  and  "Grammar  Gurton's 
Needle"  to  the  present  day,  and  yet  there  is 
almost  nothing  to  be  had  on  the  subject  of 
comedy,  either  in  history  or  criticism.  Pro 
fessor  Gayley's  collection  with  notes,  a  chap 
ter  here  and  there,  an  essay  by  Mr.  Mere 
dith,  very  helpful  sentences  and  paragraphs 
by  Mr.  Brander  Mathews,  and  one  has  about 
summed  it  up. 

Mr.  Mathews  has  defined  "High  Com 
edy"  as  "the  comic  play  that  deals  with  life 
sincerely  and  satirically,  without  exaggerated 
caricature  in  the  character-drawing  and  with 
out  extravagant  fun-making  in  the  episodes." 
Sir  Arthur  Pinero  has  been  said  to  define 
comedy  as  "a  successful  farce  written  by  a 
deceased  author,"  which  undoubtedly,  is  one 
of  those  brilliant  witticisms  that  only  too 
plainly  sacrifice  truth  to  cleverness. 

5 


6  PREFACE 

To  return  to  the  Greeks,  when  they  did 
deal  sincerely  with  domestic  situations,  they 
put  it  into  the  form  of  tragedy.  And  per 
haps  it  is  to  our  advantage  that  they  did.  If 
they  had  not  had  that  wide  gap  between 
their  farcical  comedies  and  their  great  trage 
dies,  posterity  would  no  doubt  have  been  the 
loser. 

We  are  led  to  believe  that  it  is  from  the 
Latin  and  from  Spain,  in  her  more  fortu 
nate  and  scholarly  days,  that  we  drew  the 
impetus  for  our  English  Comedy.  A  num 
ber  of  pre-Shakespearian  and  dramatists 
contemporary  with  Shakespeare,  brought 
their  grist  to  the  mill  of  Comedy  and  some 
of  this  has  sifted  down  to  us  through  cen 
turies.  Nicholas  Udall,  the  author  of  Ralph 
Royster  Doyster,  Ben  Johnson,  Chapman, 
Massinger,  all  contributed,  and  even  Lyly, 
with  all  his  Euphueism,  gave  us  some 
sprightly  dialogue  that  had  literary  merits. 
Shakespeare,  as  wre  are  all  aware,  gave  some 
very  vulgar  comedy,  but  he  also  gave  us 
some  wonderful  character  studies  in  his  com 
edy  parts  and  it  is  to  him  perhaps  that  we 
are  indebted  for  our  Romantic  Comedy.  One 
need  only  sit  in  a  picture  show  through  a 
Charlie  Chaplin  to  realize  that  a  good  part 
of  the  audience  is  still  fond  of  the  same 
"slap-stick"  vulgar  comedy  that  held  the 


PREFACE  7 

stage  in  the  Elizabethan  times.  A  majority, 
however,  have  progressed  in  the  labyrinth  of 
comedy  far  enough  to  demand  and  enjoy  a 
stimulus  for  something  besides  their  risibil 
ities. 

But  it  is  indeed  to  the  comedy  of  manners 
that  we  must  turn  for  an  immediate  precur 
sor  to  our  own;  to  Moliere,  Congreve,  Sher 
idan,  and  particularly  to  Moliere.  His 
"Femmes  Savantes,"  "Le  Misanthrope," 
"Le  Bourgoise  Gentlehomme,"  will  all 
throw  light  on  the  Comedy  of  today.  Be 
tween  this  school  and  the  present  day's  are 
a  number  of  dramatists  who  wrote  comedies 
and  who  have  all  contributed  their  bit — Os 
car  Wilde's  "Lady  Windermere's  Fan"  be 
ing  a  notable  example. 

In  time  Comedy  was  jostled  a  good  deal 
out  of  the  spot  light  by  the  so-called  "Prob 
lem  Play"  with  Ibsen's  masterpieces  in  the 
lead  and  a  following  of  lesser  ones  by  his 
conscious  and  unconscious  imitators.  Drama 
became  "a  pretty  serious  affair"  with  na 
tional  characteristics.  About  a  decade  ago, 
Mr.  Mathews,  in  a  newspaper  interview, 
very  cleverly  characterized  the  English,  Con 
tinental  (particularly  the  French),  and 
American  drama  in  some  such  manner — the 
English  usually  deals  with  caste;  the  French 
with  marital  difficulties,  notably  the  "trian- 


8  PREFACE 

gle,"  and  the  American  with  business  inter 
ests.  The  Public  generally — particularly 
the  "tired  business  man" — did  not  approve 
of  the  problem  play.  It  remained  for  that 
genius  George  Bernard  Shaw  to  combine  the 
problem  play  with  enough  satire  to  make  it 
comedy.  But  people  would  have  none  of  it. 
At  first  they  turned  their  backs  and  held  up 
their  hands  in  horror.  And  so  Mr.  Shaw 
learned  to  temper  his  theme  a  bit,  and 
caused  the  Public  to  "stop,  look  and  listen" 
and  then  to  admire  (in  a  good  many  cases 
against  their  wills)  and  as  a  result  we  have 
his  masterpieces  of  wit.  Mr.  Shaw,  let  it  be 
said,  is  in  a  class  by  himself.  He  may  be 
lonesome — "the  heights  by  great  men 
reached  and  kept"  usually  are,  but  he  is  to 
be  congratulated  as  a  wonderful  satirist  and 
a  seer.  It  is  losing  too  much  to  have  one  of 
his  plays  without  his  highly  diverting  but 
thoughtful  prefaces  and  unfortunately  the 
prefaces  cannot  be  put  upon  the  boards  even 
with  all  the  new  ideas  we  have  in  elimination 
and  development  of  stage  craft.  There 
were  other  playwrights  who  towed  us  back 
to  comedy,  notably  among  these  Mr.  Barrie 
with  his  whimsical  and  delightful  comedies 
written  for  delightful  actresses. 

Out  of  all  this  has  arisen  a  high  comedy 
that  is  something  more  than  just  high  come- 


PREFACE  9 

dy.  For  want  of  a  better  name  we  shall  call 
it  "super-comedy."  It  is  something  more — 
something  beyond  a  comedy  of  manners,  and 
out  of  it  with  the  medium  of  verse  added  we 
are  to  hope  for  masterpieces  in  the  near  fu 
ture.  As  all  of  us  know,  Mr.  Rostand  died 
too  young.  Perhaps  he  would  have  been  the 
one  to  have  given  it  to  us,  if  we  may  judge 
from  such  a  work  as  "Cyrano,"  which  he, 
himself,  I  believe,  called  a  "heroic  comedy." 

As  it  is  just  now,  this  super-comedy  might 
be  compounded  from  some  such  formula  as 
the  following — one  part  of  the  problem  play 
to  which  just  enough  of  the  suggestion  of 
tragedy  has  been  added  to  start  something, 
three  parts  of  comedy,  some  keen  satire,  and 
atmosphere  to  taste. 

The  "tired  business  man"  does  not  know 
it,  but  he  is  getting  his  same  problem-play  to 
which  he  insisted  his  women  folks  "dragged" 
him  as  an  unwilling  victim,  with  a  sugar  coat 
ing  that  makes  the  "nasty  medicine"  of  the 
play-wright  taste  more  like  sweets  than 
bitters.  If  he  is  satisfied,  why  worry! 
If  everyone  is  pleased,  "on  with  the  dance" 
and  good  luck  to  a  continued  rise  of  Comedy. 


io  PREFACE 

THE  ONE-ACT  PLAY  IN  AMERICA 

The  history  of  the  One-Act  Play,  as  such, 
is  dim  in  the  obscurity  of  newness.  Perhaps 
this  will  appear  a  paradox,  but  there  is  an 
obscurity  of  newness  with  regard  to  the 
drama  just  as  surely  as  there  is  an  obscurity 
of  age.  It  might  be  said  that  the  One-Act 
Play  as  an  institution  is  just  now  beginning 
to  affect  us  with  its  distinctive  individuality. 
For  some  time  it  has  been  strong  enough  and 
old  enough  to  stand  alone,  but  it  has  only 
very  recently  established  a  place  where  it 
might  be  allowed  to  do  so. 

In  the  time  of  our  grandparents  short 
plays,  or  farces,  were  used,  just  as  they  are 
now,  in  some  foreign  theatres,  to  relieve  the 
seriousness  of  longer  tragedies,  and  given 
after  them.  Over  twenty  years  ago  Irving 
and  Terry  used  a  short  play  as  a  curtain 
raiser,  and  more  than  fifteen  years  ago  some 
of  Barrie's  charming  one-act  creations  were 
used  to  fill  up  the  evening  with  such  delight 
ful  things  as,  "Alice  Sit  by  the  Fire."  "Pan 
taloon"  was  a  famous  curtain  raiser,  as  was 
"The  Twelve  Pound  Look."  But  no  one 
took  the  One-Act  Play  very  seriously  or 
realized  what  a  "social  climber"  it  was  to  be 
in  the  world  of  drama.  Now  its  position  is 
unquestioned,  and  actors  and  producers  are 


PREFACE  ii 

both  perfectly  willing  to  accept  it.  The  road 
to  this  success  is  as  hard  to  trace  as  the  road 
of  some  climbers  in  the  social  world,  but  it 
is  patent  that  Lady  Gregory,  Yeats,  Synge, 
and  The  Irish  Players  who  first  presented 
their  plays,  did  much  to  further  the  cause  in 
our  country.  These  one-act  dramas  as  pro 
duced  by  these  players,  advertised  themselves 
most  favorably  by  being  so  true  to  the  na 
tive  tragedy  and  comedy  of  Irish  life  that 
they  were  resented  in  America  by  the  very 
element  depicted.  But  this  very  situation, 
although  disagreeable  at  the  time,  called 
one's  attention  to  the  fact  that  the  One-Act 
Play  could  and  would  be  a  most  compelling 
factor  in  the  dramatic  world. 

In  France,  in  England,  and  in  Ireland, 
The  One-Act  Play  was  accepted  as  such  some 
time  before  it  was  in  America,  and  Mr.  Un 
derbill  tells  us  in  "Drama"  that  in  Spain,  "it 
holds  a  well  established  place  in  the  theatri 
cal  world,"  and  what  is  of  more  importance 
to  producers  and  managers,  "yields  large  re 
turns  financially."  That  it  has  not  always 
been  a  financial  success  in  America,  I  shall 
not  hesitate  to  admit,  but  that  it  is  an  artis 
tic  success  is  apparent  from  the  increasing 
number  of  companies  formed  to  play  one- 
act  plays  almost  exclusively,  and  no  doubt 
the  financial  success  will  come  in  time.  Such 


12  PREFACE 

companies  as  the  Washington  Square  Play 
ers  (that  was)  ;  The  Stuart  Walker  Port 
manteau  Players,  now  in  its  prime,  perhaps; 
the  Provincetown  group  that  produced  Mr. 
Eugene  O'Neil  of  "Beyond  the  Horizon" 
fame  and  Miss  Glaspell  who  wrote  that  very 
gripping  little  play  called  "Trifles" ;  the 
Wisconsin  Players;  The  47  Work  Shop  Lit 
tle  Theatre;  and  all  the  other  "Little  Thea 
tres"  that  are  scattered  over  the  country 
from  East  to  West  and  North  to  South  are 
a  proof  of  its  progress  and  success. 

As  to  the  writers  of  one-act  plays — they 
are  legion.  Among  whom  are  no  less  per 
sons  than  Lord  Dunsany  and  Granville  Bar 
ker.  It  is  encouraging  to  know  that  such 
men  considered  it  worth  while  to  publish  a 
volume  of  short  plays.  Among  our  own 
writers  are  the  two  I  have  mentioned,  Mr. 
O'Neil  and  Miss  Glaspell,  Miss  Gale,  of  the 
Wisconsin  Players,  Mary  McMillan,  Perci- 
val  Wilde,  George  Middleton,  Stuart  Walk 
er,  Lewis  Beach,  and  a  host  of  others;  all 
doing  good  work  but  helping  the  cause  by 
their  failures  as  well  as  by  their  successes. 
By  their  failures  because  they  show  their  suc 
cessors  what  not  to  do,  and  by  their  suc 
cesses,  because  success  means  always  the 
growth  of  a  cause. 

The  form  of  The  One-Act  Play  is  rather 


PREFACE  13 

well  established.  It  has  been  said  more  than 
once  that  it,  "bears  the  same  relation  to  the 
longer  play  that  the  short  story  does  to  the 
novel."  But  this  must  be  taken  with  restric 
tions.  That  it  is  like  the  short  story  in  one 
respect  there  is  no  doubt  and  that  is  that  it 
must  have  a  singleness  of  effect  to  be  a  suc 
cess.  It  may,  like  the  story,  be  written  with 
a  purpose,  to  entertain,  or  just  to  amuse.  If 
the  last,  it  is  usually  in  one  of  three  forms: 
comedy,  farce  comedy,  or  satire.  If  written 
to  entertain,  it  must  be  an  artistic  creation  so 
exquisite  in  atmosphere  and  essential  detail 
that  it  creates  a  lasting  impression.  If  writ 
ten  for  a  purpose,  that  purpose  must  be  so 
concealed  by  the  episode  itself,  the  situation, 
or  the  atmosphere  of  the  play,  that  the  au 
dience  receives  the  stimulus  of  that  purpose 
almost  unconsciously.  And,  if  the  playright 
is  fortunate  enough  in  his  work  to  combine 
all  three,  purpose,  amusement,  and  enter 
tainment,  his  play  is  pretty  sure  to  prove  a 
good  reading  drama  as  well  as  a  good  act 
ing  drama,  and  bids  fair  to  be  called  a  mas 
terpiece.  As  to  the  scenic  arrangements,  a 
simple  scene  is  best  as  that  is  more  adapted 
to  schools  and  settlement  play  houses  where 
the  playright  has  the  advantage  of  a  very 
mixed  and  democratic  audience.  It  is  also 
better  for  the  so-called  "Little  Theatre"  as 


i4  PREFACE 

"the  play's  the  thing,"  and  too  elaborate 
or  unusual  scenery  detracts  from  the  single 
ness  of  effect  produced. 

Not  long  ago  I  was  deeply  interested  in 
watching  the  effect  on  a  very  mixed  audience 
of  using  the  same  scene,  a  kitchen  with  gray 
walls  and  white  wood-work,  in  three  very 
different  plays.  The  producer,  a  very  suc 
cessful  person  in  such  work,  procured  varied 
effects  by  the  use  of  different  shaped  and 
different  colored  curtains  at  the  window;  a 
slight  change  of  furniture,  a  difference  in 
properties  used,  and  a  decided  change  in 
color  arrangement  and  color  of  costumes. 
The  three  plays  were :  "The  Old  Lady  Shows 
her  Medals,  Three  Pills  in  a  Bottle,  and  The 
Maker  of  Dreams."  There  were  very  few 
of  the  audience,  probably,  who  realized  any 
sameness  in  the  scene,  and  the  fact  that  there 
was  only  a  change  of  detail  and  costume, 
held  rather  than  diverted  their  interest.  "The 
play's  the  thing,"  after  all. 

Carrying  out  the  idea  of  the  one  scene  for 
an  evening  I  offer  this  suggestion — it  might 
be  advantageous  in  the  future  for  publishers 
of  one-act  plays  to  group  them  in  volumes 
under  some  such  head  as  the  following: 
Plays  to  be  Done  in  a  Kitchen;  Three  Plays 
for  a  Bed-room;  Plays  for  a  Living-room; 
Drawing-room;  Butchershop;  Railway  Star 


PREFACE  15 

tion,  etc.  At  first  glance  this  may  appear 
frivolous  to  the  serious  minded,  but  it  would 
no  doubt  save  the  producers  and  managers 
many  a  weary  search  for  three  one-act  plays 
(as  three  usually  fill  an  evening)  that  can  be 
given  without  much  change  of  scene. 

That  The  One-Act  Play  is  established 
with  us  is  apparent.  That  it  may  develop 
into  something  else  is  possible,  as  all  things 
change,  but  that  it  makes  a  good  reading 
drama,  if  well  done,  as  well  as  a  good  act 
ing  drama,  is  going  to  be  proved  by  careful 
playrights,  and  that  it  will  become  a  source 
of  great  pleasure  to  the  multitude  as  it  is  now 
to  the  few,  is  the  hope  of  all  those  interested 
in  it. 


«M— R— S" 

A  Play  in  One  Act 


CHARACTERS 

Miss  Cordelia  Crenshaw — A  spinster. 

Betty — Her  younger  sister,  who  is  mar 
ried. 

Mrs.  Crenshaw — Her  mother. 

Mr.  Crenshaw — Her  father. 

Sam  Crenshaw — Her  brother,  who  is 
married. 

Cordelia,  Jr. — Sam's  daughter,  a  girl  of 
sixteen. 

Mr.  James  Peabody — A  bachelor. 

A  Maid. 

A  Dog. 


SCENE  I 

The  Crenshaw  living  room,  about  ten  in 
the  morning. 

SCENE  II 

The  same,  about  five  in  the  afternoon. 
SCENE  III 

The  same  as  I  and  II,  but  three  months 
later  and  nine  in  the  evening. 


20 


4M— R— Sr 

SCENE  I 

( The  Crenshaw  living-room,  about  ten  in 
the  morning.)  Miss  Cordelia  Crenshaw, 
the  old  maid  of  the  family,  and  a  good  look 
ing  woman  of  thirty-five,  is  knitting  rather 
hurriedly  and  nervously  as  though  she  ex 
pected  to  be  called  away  the  next  minute. 
The  street  door  closes.  She  listens — then, 
as  a  young  woman  appears  at  the  door,  she 
says,  without  looking  up : 

Well,  Betty,  what's  the  matter  now? 

BETTY 

Charles  and  I  had  another  row  this  morn 
ing. 

CORDELIA 
What  about? 

BETTY 

He  said  I  loved  the  dog  more  than  I  did 
him. 

CORDELIA 
Well,  don't  you? 

BETTY 

Of  course,  but  I  said  I  didn't.  Then  he 
said  I  lied  and  always  had  lied  to  him  about 
everything. 

21 


22  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

CORDELIA 
And  what  did  you  say  to  that? 

BETTY 

I  said  it  was  his  attitude  that  made  me, 
and  we,  neither  of  us,  ate  much  breakfast, 
and  when  he  went  out,  he  gave  Laddie  a  kick 
that  made  him  howl,  and  I  was  furious. 

CORDELIA 
Hadn't  I  better  keep  the  dog  a  day  or  two  ? 

BETTY 

Yes — and,  oh  Cordy,  don't  wear  your 
hair  that  way — it  looks  awfully  old-fash 
ioned.  Anyone  would  know  you  were  an  old 
rnaid. 

CORDELIA 

(Drops  the  knitting  in  her  lap  and  looks 
"daggers"  at  her  sister.)  Betty,  I  think 
you're  just  as  unkind  as  you  can  be.  Do  you 
realize  I  don't  have  time  to  primp  and  fuss 
over  myself  as  you  do  ?  Do  you  realize  that 
I  am  home-keeper,  companion,  trained  nurse, 
when  it's  necessary,  private  secretary  to 
Father,  and  a  thousand  other  things  in  this 
home? 

BETTY 
Oh,  Cordy! 

CORDELIA 

(Rushing  on.)  — and  that  if  I  weren't 
here — if  I  should  go  away  and  live  my  life 
as  every  woman  has  a  right  to  do,  you  or 


«M— R— S"  23 

Sam  would  have  to  come  home  and  take  care 
of  Father  and  Mother — 
BETTY 

Well— 

CORDELIA 

— and  yet  you,  whom  I  am  saving,  come 
and  criticize  my  looks  and  call  me  old  maid 
in  that  derisive  way.      (Gets  up  and  walks 
about  in  an  agitated  manner.} 
BETTY 

Oh  nonsense,  Cordy. 

CORDELIA 

Oh,  I  wonder  why  it  is  that  we  "old 
maids,"  as  the  world  calls  us,  must  submit  to 
the  patronizing  of  women,  who  are  married 
— women,  who  have  succeeded  in  catching 
a  man,  and  whom  we  know,  down  in  our 
hearts,  are  not  nearly  so  attractive  as  we  are. 
BETTY 

Well,  I  like  that! 

CORDELIA 

(Turning  to  Betty.)  I  don't  mean  you, 
Betty.  You  certainly  are  good  to  look  at, 
but  you  didn't  marry  Charles  because  you 
loved  him.  You  married  him  to  be  married, 
so  you  would  not  be  an  "old  maid"  and  you 
go  through  the  world,  pointing  a  finger  of 
scorn  at  any  woman  who  has  not  landed  a 
man —  (She  dabs  her  eyes  with  her  hand 
kerchief  and  takes  up  her  knitting  again.) 


24  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

BETTY 
Cordy,  you're  not  fair. 

CORDELIA 

Indeed  I  am  fair,  but  I'm  not  nice,  I'm 
horrid!  (Trying  to  be  more  agreeable.} 
Where  are  you  going  this  morning? 

BETTY 

I'm  going  to  a  meeting  to  talk  about  help 
ing  unfortunate  children.  Mrs.  Borden 
asked  me,  and,  of  course,  I  couldn't  refuse 
her.  She  said  they  had  had  a  hard  time  to 
persuade  women  to  come. 
CORDELIA 

(Drops  her  knitting  to  her  lap.)     Why,  I 
should  love  to  have  gone. 
BETTY 

They  didn't  ask  any  unmarried  women. 
They  thought  it  would  be  best  not  to, 
and  anyway,  what  do  old  maids  know 
about  children? 

CORDELIA 

There  it  is  again — "old  maids!"  Please 
oblige  me  by  trying  to  leave  that  out  of  your 
vocabulary.  (Looks  at  her  wrist  watch.) 
You'll  be  late  to  your  meeting.  I'll  keep 
Laddie,  won't  I,  boy?  (She  leans  over  and 
pets  the  dog.) 

BETTY 

(Rising  and  going  to  the  door.)  Shall 
you  go  to  Mrs.  Van  Hyse's  tomorrow  night? 


«M— R— S"  25 

CORDELIA 

(Drops  her  knitting  to  her  lap  and  looks 
up  with  a  cynical  little  smile.}  I  understand 
they  are  having  such  a  hard  time  finding  a 
man  for  me,  that  I  think  I  shall  be  compelled 
to  develop  a  cold  or  something  of  the  sort. 
BETTY 

Oh,  Cordelia,  you're  unreasonable.  Good 
bye  !  (She  goes  out.} 

CORDELIA 

(Puts  her  knitting  on  the  table  and  taking 
the  dog's  head  in  her  hands,  soliloquise  st 
looking  at  him  and  talking  quietly  and  sad 
ly  to  him.}  Laddie,  I  am  an  old  maid!  I'm 
old  to  be  unmarried  and  I'm  a  maid,  so  I  am 
an  old  maid,  but  am  I  that  derisive  creature 
that  children  caricature  and  laugh  at — that 
men  mock  or  pity  as  the  case  may  be,  and 
that  women  who  married  to  be  married, 
scorn?  Am  I,  Laddie?  Tell  me,  Boy.  Those 
great  knowing  eyes  of  yours  ought  to  see 
more  than  we  do.  Is  there  no  place  in  the 
world  for  old  maids  and  old  bachelors  who 
give  their  lives  that  others  may  live  comfort 
ably,  and  who,  later  on  are  left  alone  in  the 
world,  to  drag  through  the  infirmities  of  old 
age,  without  the  joy  of  youth  about  them  in 
their  children,  who  creep  farther  and  farther 
away  from  the  world  to  hide  their  loneliness, 
and  die  forgotten — Oh,  Laddie,  there  must 
be  I 


26  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

(Picks  up  her  knitting  and  goes  at  it  en 
ergetically.  In  a  very  decided  voice.)  I'm 
not  going  to  do  that,  Laddie.  I'm  going  to 
marry!  I'm  going  to  ask  the  first,  nice,  old 
bachelor  I  see  to  marry  me  and  allow  me  to 
use  his  name  with  the  "Mrs."  before  it,  that 
seems  so  indispensable.  It's  to  be  merely  a 
business  transaction.  I  keep  his  home  and 
entertain  his  friends  and  see  that  he  is  com 
fortable  for  the  use  of  the  "M-r  s." — mere 
ly  a  business  transaction,  Laddie. 
MR.  PEABODY 

(With  stick  and  hat  in  hand,  hesitating  a 
moment  at  the  door.)  I  hope  I'm  not  in 
truding,  Miss  Cordelia? 

CORDELIA 

(Aside,  as  if  to  the  dog.)  Sent  my  Provi 
dence,  Laddie.  (Rising  and  putting  down 
her  knitting.)  No,  you  came  just  at  the 
right  time.  I  fear  my  courage  might  have 
left  me  if  you  had  been  a  moment  later,  Mr. 
Peabody.  You  are  a  bachelor,  aren't  you? 
MR.  PEABODY 

(In  a  tone  of  great  surprise.)  Yes,  very 
much  an  old  bachelor,  so  my  friends  tell  me. 
Why? 

CORDELIA 

Because,  what  I  was  going  to  ask  of  you 
might  be  embarrassing  if  you  were  not. 


«M— R— S"  27 

MR.  PEABODY 

(Very  much  amused.}  I  hope  you're  not 
going  to  ask  me  to  marry  anyone? 

CORDELIA 

(A  little  breathless,  somewhat  shocked  at 
what  she  is  doing.}     I  was — 
MR.  PEABODY 

(Still  very  amused.}  And  may  I  ask  who 
the  unfortunate  lady  is  to  be  ? 

CORDELIA 

(Almost     breathless     with    fright.}       I, 
Beatrice  Cordelia  Crenshaw. 
MR.  PEABODY 

(A  little  irritated.}      I  don't  understand 
your  joke,  Miss  Cordelia. 
CORDELIA 

(In  a  very  firm  voice  now.}  I'm  not  jok 
ing,  Mr.  Peabody. 

MR.  PEABODY 

(Coming  around  and  standing  in  front  of 
her  and  looking  down  at  her.}  Then  you're 
ill! 

CORDELIA 

No,  I  never  was  in  better  health,  I  feel 
sure  I  am  going  to  develop  a  cold  by  to-mor 
row  night,  but  I'm  quite  well  this  morning. 

MR.  PEABODY 

(Still  very  much  mystified.}  Is  your 
Mother  ill  again? 


28  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

CORDELIA 

No,  on  the  contrary,  she  is  much  better 
than  she  was  the  last  time  you  were  in  the 
city.    She  has  gone  out  to  spend  the  day. 
MR.  PEABODY 

I  know  your  Father  is  well,  because  I  have 
just  come  from  him.     (Drawing  up  a  chair 
and  sitting  down.}     Now,  would  you  mind 
telling  me  just  what  is  the  matter? 
CORDELIA 

(A  little  breathlessly  and  rapidly,  as  if 
wanting  to  get  through  with  it.)  Not  at  all, 
it's  just  that  I'm  tired  of  being  an  old  maid, 
and  I  vowed  a  few  moments  ago  that  I'd  ask 
some,  good,  respectable  bachelor  to  marry 
me  and  let  me  take  his  name.  In  return  I 
should  see  that  he  was  comfortable,  try  to 
make  his  home  attractive  and  entertain  his 
friends  for  him.  (Mr.  Peabody  nods  his 
head  gravely.}  It  would  be  merely  a  busi 
ness  transaction  and  each  of  us  would  be  as 
free  to  come  and  go  as  though  we  were  un 
married.  (Looking  up.}  Do  you  still  think 
I'm  mad?" 

MR.  PEABODY 

No,  I  think  you  are  a  very  frank  and  cour 
ageous  woman,  but   (smiling  indulgently  at 
her},  let's  say  a  trifle  hasty  perhaps. 
CORDELIA 

You  put  it  very  kindly,  Mr.  Peabody. 


»M— R— S"  29 

MR.  PEABODY 

You  know  nothing  of  my  life.     I'm  almost 

an  old  man,  or  at  least  I  look  it.     See  how 

gray  I'm  getting.     I've  lived  alone  for  ten 

years  and  I'm  afraid  I'm  very  set  in  my  ways. 

CORDELIA 

I  think  I  heard  you  say  once  that  you  were 
forty-five.  I'm  thirty-five. 

MR.  PEABODY 

Thirty-five,  well  I  should  never  have 
thought  it.  Do  you  realize  that  you  are  a 
very  attractive  woman  and  that  you  may  yet 
love  some  man?  You  would  undoubtedly 
have  a  great  many  admirers,  and  let  us  say, 
suitors,  perhaps,  if  you  were  placed  in  an 
other  environment. 

CORDELIA 

But  I  never  shall  be,  and  I'm  getting  old 
er  and  uglier  and  crosser  every  day.  Only 
this  morning  I  said  such  nasty,  sharp  things 
to  my  sister  and  you  remember  "a  sharp 
tongue  is  the  only  edge  tool  that  grows  keen 
er  with  constant  use." 

MR.  PEABODY 

Very  true,  but  with  love  you  would  be  a 
different  woman.  You  are  the  sort  of  wo 
man  that  needs  love  and  I  can't  give  you 
that.  I've  liked  you  from  the  first  and  I've 
always  enjoyed  the  little  chats  we've  had, 
when  I  came  to  see  your  Father,  but  that's 


30  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

very  different  from  the  love  you  deserve. 
You  must  make  a  promise,  Miss  Cordelia, 
if  we  enter  into  this  contract,  I  must  have 
your  word  that  you  will  tell  me  the  minute 
you  find  that  man  that  all  women  ought  to 
find,  and  so  few  do — the  one  who  really 
loves  you  and  whom  you  really  love.  You 
must  be  happy  if  it  is  possible. 
CORDELIA 

(Looking  up  frankly    and    honestly.}      I 
promise  but  I  shall  never  find  him. 
MR.  PEABODY 

Don't  be  too  sure.  Love  is  a  strange  thing. 
It  is  to  be  found  and  not  found  in  the  strang 
est  places.  Do  you  realize  that  seventy-five 
per  cent,  of  the  women  who  marry,  marry 
without  love.  They  think  they  love,  but  they 
are  carried  off  their  feet  by  that  insidious  lit 
tle  germ  Romance,  that  creeps  into  their 
blood  and  makes  them  see  only  the  glamour 
of  being  an  engaged  being,  a  bride,  a  young 
mother,  with  a  beautiful  child  that  everyone 
turns  to  look  at — 

CORDELIA 

(Interrupting.}  I  understand  all  that, 
Mr.  Peabody — 

MR.  PEABODY 

(Continues.}  They  shut  their  eyes  to  all 
the  ugly  little  things  that  come  up  in  life  for 
consideration  before  one  can  arrive  at  ma- 


"M— R— S"  31 

turity.  They  are  fairly  eaten  up  by  the 
germs  of  romance  and  they  do  not  want  to 
be  old  maids. 

CORDELIA 

I  know,  but — 

MR.  PEABODY 

(Continuing.)  Do  you  realize  that  fifty 
per  cent,  of  the  widows  in  the  world  are  glad 
to  be  widows,  provided  they  are  left  with 
sufficient  income.  Not  long  ago  I  went  to 
attend  the  funeral  of  a  college  friend,  whom 
I  had  not  seen  since  his  marriage.  His  wife, 
to  all  appearances,  was  deeply  grieved.  I 
rode  to  the  cemetery  with  her,  as  they  were 
among  strangers.  While  returning,  she  lift 
ed  her  veil  and  said  quietly:  "James  Pea- 
body,  your  friend  led  me  a  Hell  of  a  life  I" 
CORDELIA 

Oh,  how  could  she ! 

MR.  PEABODY 

I  was  shocked  and  grieved, but  my  sense  of 
humor  came  to  my  aid,  and  I  said,  "Then, 
Madam,  may  I  ask  why  you  weep?"  She 
turned  her  head  and  looked  out  at  the  fields 
we  were  passing,  "I  am  not  grieving  for 
him,"  she  said,  "but  for  that  young  girl,  my 
self,  who  died  and  was  buried  soon  after  our 
marriage."  "And  is  there  no  possibility  of 
her  coming  to  life  again,"  I  asked.  "None," 
she  said,  most  desolately,  and  I  knew  she 


32  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

was  right.     It  is  such  things  as  these  that 
keep  old  bachelors  old  bachelors. 

CORDELIA 

(Looking  up  archly.)  You've  not  suc 
ceeded  in  frightening  me  yet,  Mr.  Peabody. 

MR.  PEABODY 

(Whimsically.  Has  risen  and  walked  the 
length  of  the  room.)  Miss  Cordelia,  one 
thing  more — when  this  thing  is  settled,  I 
want  you  to  allow  me  to  propose  to  you. 

CORDELIA 

How  absurd.  Why  there'd  be  no  need  of 
that. 

MR.  PEABODY 

Oh,  yes,  there  would.  When  romantic 
youngsters  come  to  you  and  say,  "Oh,  Mrs. 
Peabody,  how  did  Mr.  Peabody  propose  to 
you,"  I  want  you  to  be  able  to  tell  them. 
Mark  my  words,  they'll  ask  you. 

CORDELIA 

(Laughing.)  Nonsense,  hut  do  as  you 
like. 

MR.  PEABODY 

(Looking  at  his  watch.)  It's  getting  near 
lunch  time.  It  is  necessary  for  us  to  go  over 
this  thing  very  thoroughly.  Can't  you  come 
along  to  the  city  and  lunch  with  me  ? 

CORDELIA 

(Rising  and  going  toward  the  door.)  Give 
me  just  two  minutes!  (Stopping  at  the 


"M— R— S"  33 

door.)  You'll  find  your  kind  of  cigarettes 
on  the  table  and  some  late  magazines.  (She 
goes  out.} 

MR.  PEABODY 

(Gets  a  cigarette,  comes  down  center, 
then  seats  himself  near  Laddie.  Sighs  and 
shakes  his  head  thoughtfully,  with  unlighted 
cigarette  in  his  fingers.}  A  very  singular 
situation,  Laddie,  a  very  singular  situation. 
Curtain 


,ftM  SCENE  II 

t 

(Mr.  Crenshaw  comes  blustering  in,  in  a 
great  rage.  He  rattles  the  door  in  his  ner 
vousness  and  finally  opens  it  and  enters.  The 
room  is  perfectly  dark  and  he  stumbles  about 
until  he  lights  the  table  lamp,  talking  all  the 
while. ) 

MR.  CRENSHAW 

(Entering.)  Mother  1  Kate!  Where  in 
the  world  is  everybody?  Nice  home  to  come 
tol  No  one  here — no  light  (turns  on  the 
light.)  (Calls  again.)  Mother!  Lizzie! 
And  this  is  all  caused  by  that  ungrateful 
girl.  (Rushes  to  telephone.)  Operator, 
give  me  4694  Clifton — 4-6-9-4.  Think  I 
want  to  wait  all  day  ?  Hello,  Sam !  Jump  in 
your  car  and  come  over  here  right  away — 
What's  the  matter?  (Sarcastically.)  Oh, 
nothing,  of  course!  I'm  just  having  a  pink 
tea,  that's  all.  (Drops  telephone  and  begins 
to  pace  the  room.)  Fine  mess  Cordy's  made 
of  things.  I'll  show  her  whether  she  can  trot 
off  with  every  James  Forsythe  Peabody  that 
comes  along.  Rank  ingratitude,  that's  what 
it  is. 

(The  door  opens  and  he  speaks  without 
turning  around.)  You  little  speed  devil, 
Sam! 

34 


«M— R— S"  35 

BETTY 

(At  the  door.)  Sam!  It  isn't  Sam,  it's 
Betty.  Where's  Laddie?  How  are  you  Dad 
dy,  Dear?  Isn't  Laddie  in  here? 

MR.  CRENSHAW 

Elizabeth,  how  can  you  be  thinking  of 
your  affairs  when  your  sister  is  losing  her 
mind? 

BETTY 

(With  concern.)     Where  is  Cordy? 
(Sam  bursts  in.) 

SAM 

Yes,  where  is  Cordy?  Isn't  she  here?  We 
can't  settle  this,  whatever  it  is,  without  her. 

BETTY 
Settle  what? 

SAM 

Don't  you  know  either?  Haven't  you  told 
her  Father? 

MR.  CRENSHAW 

Well,  have  I  had  a  chance?  Of  course, 
when  you  have  quite  finished —  (He  hands 
a  telegram  to  Sam.) 

BETTY 

What  in  the  world — ? 
SAM 

Married  I  Good  Lordl  This  is  great! 
(Laughs  heartily.) 

BETTY 
(Snatching  the  telegram  from  him.)  Well, 


36  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

if  it's  so  funny,  you  might  let  me  see.  (Goes 
to  lamp  and  reads  the  telegram  aloud,  slow 
ly,  while  Sam  laughs  and  his  father  snorts 
with  rage.)  "Married  at  three  p.  m.  Will 
be  home  to  receive  congratulations.  Corde 
lia  Crenshaw  Peabody." 

Oh,  Dad,  do  you  suppose  it  is  true  ?  What 
can  we  do? 

SAM 

Do  ?  It  doesn't  seem  they've  left  you  very 
much  of  anything  to  do  but  regret  what  a 
slave  you  made  of  poor,  old  Cordy. 
MR.  CRENSHAW 

When  I  want  your  views  on  the  subject, 
Samuel,  I'll  ask  for  them.  (Blusters.)  I'll 
bring  them  to  their  senses!  If  Cordy  thinks 
she  can  marry  every  fellow  she  takes  a  fancy 
to,  I'll  show  her!  She  shall  remain  right 
here  in  this  house  where  she  belongs,  where 
she's  needed,  and  as  for  Jim  Peabody,  I  just 
want  to  catch  sight  of  him,  that's  all !  (Paces 
up  and  down.  Mrs.  Crenshaw  enters.) 

(Mrs  Crenshaw  comes  in,  in  hat  and 
wraps  and  drops  into  the  nearest  chair.  Sam 
and  Betty  and  Mr.  Crenshaw  look  from  one 
to  the  other  as  though  each  expected  the  oth 
er  to  speak. ) 

MRS.  CRENSHAW 

(Realizing  that  something  has  happened.) 
Well,  what  are  Sam  and  Betty  here  for  at 


"M— R— S"  37 

this  time  of  day?  Has  anything  happened? 
Where's  Cordelia?  What  are  you  keeping 
from  me? 

MR.  CRENSHAW 

Cordelia's  married! 

MRS.  CRENSHAW 

(Sitting    bolt    upright.)      Married?    She 
can't  be.     The  fall  cleaning  isn't  done,  and 
I've  had  only  one  fitting  at  my  tailor's. 
SAM 

(Taking  the  telegram  to  his  mother.) 
Somehow,  she  seems  to  have  put  it  across  in 
spite  of  her  family. 

MRS.  CRENSHAW 

(Reads.)  "Married  at  3.30.  Will  be 
home  to  receive  congratulations.  Cordelia 
Crenshaw  Peabody."  (Mrs.  Crenshow  con 
tinues.)  So  its  your  friend  James  Peabody 
who  has  stolen  our  daughter  from  us.  I'm 
relieved  since  it  had  to  be  a  man,  that  it  isn't 
that  young  Willard  chap  who  is  always  hang 
ing  around  her. 

SAM 

That  young  Willard  chap  is  hanging 
around  Cordy  for  the  sake  of  seeing  my 
daughter  Cordelia.  I've  let  him  know  that 
she's  too  young  to  receive  his  attentions,  so 
he  showers  them  over  her  aunt's  shoulders. 
MRS.  CRENSHAW 

I  suppose  all  women  have  to  be  married 
some  time. 


38  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

SAM 

Yes,  so  they  can  have  a  husband  to  extract 
money  from  and  quarrel  with  occasionally — 
eh,  Betty? 

MR.  CRENSHAW 

Damn  all  women!  Cordelia  is  not  like 
other  women.  There's  something  behind 
this!  No  man  was  ever —  (A  bell  rings  and 
the  maid  goes  to  open  the  door.)  — farther 
from  marriage  than  James — 

(Voices  in  the  hall.) 
MAID 

Yes,  Miss  Cordy,  your  Mother  is  here. 
SAM 

Sh!  There  they  are. 

(Cordelia  appears  at  the  door  in  a  very 
becoming  hat  and  street  suit.  Mr.  Peabody 
is  just  behind  her.) 

(Mr.  Crenshaw  stops  and  confronts  them 
the  minute  they  are  well  inside  the  room.) 
MR.  CRENSHAW 

Well,  what  does  this  mean,  Cordelia  ? 

(Sam  stands  hurriedly — Betty  comes  for 
ward  excitedly,  then  goes  to  comfort  her 
mother — Mrs.  Crenshaw  takes  out  her 
smelling  salts.) 

CORDELIA 

(Sweetly.  Taking  of  her  gloves  and  look 
ing  at  her  wedding  ring.)  Just  what  the 
telegram  said,  Father,  we're  married. 


«M— R— S"  39 

MR.  CRENSHAW 

You  can't  be,  it's  absurd. 
MR.  PEABODY 

But  we  are,  Crenshaw,  and  we  came  to  get 
your  blessing  before  we  started  on  the  wed 
ding  journey.  (He  walks  over  to  Mrs. 
Crenshaw  and  greets  her.) 

MR.  CRENSHAW 

Wedding  journey!  Why  you  haven't  even 
been  in  love. 

MR.  PEABODY 

Very  true,  we  haven't,  but  I  am  beginning 
to  think  that  is  not  so  necessary  to  a  happy 
marriage  as  congeniality  of  tastes,  a  sense  of 
humor,  and  a  thorough  understanding  be 
tween  the  condemned  parties.  (He  smiles 
reassuringly  at  Cordelia.  Cordelia  looks  at 
him  proudly  and  gratefully.) 
MR.  CRENSHAW 

(Turning  to  Cordelia.)  Peabody  has 
proved  himself  an  ass,  but  you,  Cordelia,  I 
nave  always  looked  upon  you  as  worth  a 
dozen  other  women,  when  it  came  to  com 
mon  sense.  You're  mad,  both  of  you. 
You're  insane.  I  wash  my  hands  of  you. 
(He  goes  out  in  a  rage.) 
BETTY 

(With  a  very  superior  matronly  air.)  I 
hope  you  realize  what  you're  doing,  Corde 
lia? 


40  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

CORDELIA 

(A  little  piqued,  turning  to  her.}     I  cer 
tainly  do.     I  shall  not  be  called  old — 
MR.  PEABODY 

Breaking  in  quickly  with  a  smile  at  Corde- 
lia.)  Miss  Crenshaw  any  longer — she  will 
now  be  Mrs.  James  Forsythe  Peabody. 
(Turning  quickly  to  Sam.)  Aren't  you  go 
ing  to  congratulate  us,  Sam? 
SAM 

(Takes  Cordelia's  hand  and  fingers  the 
wedding  ring — then  taking  her  hand  to  his 
lips,  kisses  it  affectionately,  and  lets  it  fall. 
Grasps  Mr.  Peabody' 's  hand.)  I  hope  you 
realize  what  you're  getting,  Peabody.  Cordy 
is  the  finest  woman  I  ever  knew.  Love  her 
and  be  good  to  her  and  you'll  never  regret 
it.  (He  goes  out,  overcome  with  his  emo 
tion.) 

(Cordelia  and  James  Peabody  look  at 
each  other  a  little  startled,  by  Sam's  admoni 
tion.  ) 

(The  maid  appears  at  the  door  with  a 
traveling  bag.) 

MAID 

Here's  your  bag,  Miss  Cordelia.  The 
taxi's  here. 

CORDELIA 

(Going  over  to  her  mother.)  Good-bye, 
mother.  (They  kiss  each  other  afection- 
ately.) 


«M— R— S"  4* 

BETTY 

(Walks  to  the  door  with  them,  shakes 
hands  with  James  conventionally,  and  kisses 
Cordelia.)  Good-bye  and  I  hope  you'll  be 

happy. 

MRS.  CRENSHAW 

(Sobbing.}  What  shall  I  do  without  Cor 
delia  ! 

BETTY 

There,  there,  Mother  I     Don't    cry!    I'll 
let  you  keep  Laddie  for  awhile. 
Curtain 


SCENE  III 

( Three  months  have  passed  since  Scene 
II.  Cordelia  and  James  Peabody  have  re 
turned  from  their  wedding  journey  and  have 
arrived  just  before  dinner,  to  visit  the  Cren- 
shaws.  Cordelia  is  seated  on  a  couch  very 
comfortably  knitting.  James  is  seated  oppo 
site,  smoking  and  watching  her  hands,  evi 
dently  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure.  They 
both  look  well  and  happy  and  younger.  At 
the  other  side  of  the  room,  in  the  light  of  a 
desk  lamp,  doubled  up  in  a  comfortable 
chair,  entirely  absorbed  in  her  book,  is  Cor 
delia,  Jr.,  Sam's  daughter,  a  girl  of  sixteen 
years  of  age.} 

CORDELIA 

(Very  low,  so  as  not  to  disturb  her  niece.} 
Did  you  see  how  glad  they  all  were  to  see 
me,  and  with  what  pride  Mother  said  to  the 
new  maid,  "Take  Mrs.  Peabody's  wraps, 
Katie."  I'll  tell  you,  the  M-r-s.  has  a  great 
effect  on  women,  no  matter  what  you  say  to 
the  contrary. 

JAMES 

(Flecking  the  ashes  from  his  cigarette 
thoughtfully.}  Its  a  great  pity  they  have  to 
marry  us  poor  devils  to  be  called  Mrs. 

CORDELIA 

(Looking  warningly  toward  Cordelia, 
Jr.}  Sh! 

42 


"M— R— S"  43 

JAMES 

(With  a  nod  in  the  girl's  direction,  but 
very  low.}  She  can't  hear.  She's  steeped  in 
Romance.  She's  hurrying  on  to  the  place 
near  the  end  where  he  tells  the  heroine  he 
loves  her.  (They  both  look  at  the  girl  with 
amusement,  then  fall  silent  for  a  moment. 
Cordelia,  Jr.,  finishes  her  book,  closes  it  with 
a  bang  and  sighing,  gets  up  and  comes  over 
to  sit  by  her  Aunt.  She  is  still  lost  in  Ro 
mance  and  looks  musingly  at  the  lamp.} 
CORDELIA,  SR. 

Well,  Dear,  and  how  do  you  enjoy  stay 
ing  with  Grandfather  and  Grandmother  and 
taking  my  place  ? 

CORDELIA,  JR. 

In  some  ways  I  like  it  and  in  some  I  don't. 
I  have  felt  dreadfully  important  and  fear 
fully  imposed  upon.  Grandmother  is  always 
losing  something  that  I  have  to  hunt  and 
Grandfather  is  always  hunting  something 
that  he  says  I've  lost.  Aunt  Betty  is  always 
coming  over  to  tell  me  how  disagreeable  Un 
cle  Charles  is  and  how  hard  it  is  to  keep  Lad 
die  clean  and  everyone  expects  something  of 
me  that  I  didn't  do. 

(James  and  Cordelia  laugh.} 
JAMES 

My  Dear,  you  are  learning  very  early  the 
cost  of  occupying  an  important  position. 


44  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

CORDELIA,  JR. 

I  think  I'll  elope  as  you  did,  Aunt  Cordy. 
How  did  Uncle  James  propose  to  you? 

(Cordelia,  Sr.f  looks  at  James  and  James 
nods  his  head  as  if  to  say  "I  told  you  so/") 
CORDELIA,  SR. 

(Somewhat  embarrassed.)      Oh,   I   don't 
know,  Dear — 

JAMES 

(Interrupting.)  I  do,  I  remember  exact 
ly.  I  said,  "Miss  BeatriceCordeliaCrenshaw, 
will  you  do  me  the  honor  to  give  me  your 
hand  in  marriage."  And  your  Aunt  Cordy 
(we  had  just  finished  the  first  lunch  we  ever 
took  tete-a-tete)  laughed  and  put  her  hand 
out  on  the  table  and  said,  "Very  well,  here 
it  is,"  and  I  took  the  measurement  of  her  fin 
ger  for  a  wedding  ring,  and  we  went  to  the 
jeweler's  and  bought  it,  and  then  we  were 
married  and  lived  happily  ever  after.  (He 
and  Cordelia  smile  at  each  other.} 
CORDELIA,  JR. 

(Looks  from  one  to  the  other,  and  find 
ing  that  they  have  forgotten  her,  gets  up  and 
starts  away.  She  turns  and  says.)  Well,  I 
don't  think  that's  very  romantic.  I'm  going 
to  ask  Mother,  when  I  go  home  tomorrow, 
what  Father  said  to  her. 
JAMES 

Better  not.     You    may  be    disappointed. 


«M— R— S"  45 

Most  happy  marriages    are    not    foreshad 
owed  by  romantic  proposals."      (He  smiles 
at  her  and  she  smiles  back  a  little  mystified, 
and  goes  out  humming.} 
JAMES 
What  a  romantic  youngster  she  is! 

CORDELIA 
I  hope  she'll  marry  young. 

JAMES 

She  will.  She'll  probably  marry  young 
Willard  before  she's  twenty  and  then,  at 
thirty  she'll  be  falling  in  love  with  every  new 
matinee  idol  that  comes  to  town. 

CORDELIA 
I  believe  in  youthful  matches. 

JAMES  > 

And  I  believe  in  more  mature  ones. 

CORDELIA 

It's  very  good  of  you,  James,  to  say  that, 
since  ours  was  that  sort. 

(James  gets  up  and  walks  about  thought 
fully,  smoking,  while    Cordelia    knits.     He 
stops  suddenly  and  sighing,  looks  down  at 
her  and  begins  to  speak.) 
JAMES 

Cordelia,  you  remember  when  you  made 
me  the  promise  about  the  proposal  you  made 
me  another  one? 


46  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

CORDELIA 

(Without  looking  up.)  Yes,  I  remember, 
James. 

JAMES 

(Continuing.)  I've  thought  very  often 
lately  that  you  acted  very  much  like  a  woman 
in  love — you  are  absent-minded,  abnormally 
happy,  at  times,  then  at  other  times,  as  ab 
normally  depressed.  Am  I  right? 

CORDELIA 

(Without  looking  up  and  bending  very 
close  over  her  knitting.)  Yes,  James. 

JAMES 
(Huskily.)     Then  you  do  love  someone. 

CORDELIA 

(Nodding  her  head.)  Yes,  very  deeply, 
James. 

JAMES 

(Standing  petrified  with  his  grief,  his  eyes 
on  the  floor.)  And  may  I  ask  who  it  is. 

CORDELIA 

(Drops  her  knitting  and  rushes  over  to 
him  and  taking  hold  of  the  lapels  of  his  coat, 
says  very  tenderly,  in  a  voice  tense  with  emo 
tion.')    Look,  James,  don't  you  see  who  it  is? 
Curtain 


THE  YOUNGER  SON 
A  Play  in  One  Act  and  Two  Scenes 


CHARACTERS 

John  Pierce — The  younger  son. 

Kichard — his  elder  brother. 

Mr.  Pierce — his  father. 

Philip  Pierce — his  uncle. 

Margaret  Richter — the  girl  John  loves. 

Mr.  Green — representing  a  furniture  firm. 

Miss  Ward — a  stenographer. 

Stephen — a  colored  janitor. 

Hinty — a  foreman. 

Time:  the  present. 


49 


SCENES 

Scene  I. — Office  of  The  Crescent  Furni 
ture  Company. 

Scene  II — Office  of  The  John  Pierce  Man 
ufacturing  Co. 

(The  action  takes  place  in  a  city  in  the 
Middle  West.) 


THE  YOUNGER  SON 

SCENE  I 

(The  office  of  The  Crescent  Furniture 
Company.  As  the  curtain  rises,  Richard 
Pierce,  at  his  desk,  is  dictating  a  letter  to  his 
stenographer.  John  Pierce,  as  assistant 
manager,  is  at  his  desk  on  the  other  side  of 
the  room.) 

RICHARD 

Hoping  that  this  will  meet  with  your  ap 
proval  and  that  we  may  have  your  order  not 
later  than  the  sixteenth,  we  beg  to  remain, 
sincerely  yours,  Richard  Pierce,  Manager, 
Crescent  Furniture  Co. 

(The  telephone  rings.) 
RICHARD 

(Answering.)  Hello!  Hello!  Yes,  this  is 
Mr.  Pierce.  Yes,  she's  here.  (Hands  the 
receiver  over  to  Miss  Ward.  Here,  Miss 
Ward,  Lawyer  Judson  wants  to  speak  to 
you.  Youv'e  become  an  heiress.  Perhaps 
some  rich  uncle  has  left  you  a  fortune." 
Miss  WARD 

(Taking  the  receiver.)  Far  from  it,  Mr. 
Pierce.  He  wants  to  talk  about  a  mortgage. 

Hello,  Mr.  Judson!     (She  listens  a  mo- 

Si 


52  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

ment.)  Why,  I  can't  raise  no  two  hundred 
dollars.  When?  In  June!  All  right.  I'll 
see  what  I  can  do  about  it.  (She  slams  the 
receiver  up.  Both  men  raise  their  heads  in 
terestedly.) 

RICHARD 

Hard  luck,  Miss  Ward? 
Miss  WARD 

Gee,  yes  I  If  we  don't  raise  two  hundred 
by  the  first  of  June  we're  going  to  lose  our 
place  out  there  at  the  edge  of  town.  And 
we've  got  our  garden  all  in  and  the  boys  and 
Mother  have  painted  everything  up  and 
pruned  the  fruit  trees  and  the  berries — (She 
wipes  her  eyes.)  An'  we  got  a  cow  and 
chickens  and  ducks  and  geese  and  Belgian 
hares  and  two  pigs — 

JOHN 

(Laughing.)     What  else,  Miss  Ward? 
Miss  WARD 

(Continuing.)     And  if  we  don't  keep  it, 
we  got  to  go  back  to  Dayton,  Ohio,  and  live 
off  of  Grandma,  and  believe  me,  she  don't 
make  it  any  too  pleasant. 
RICHARD 

(Patting  her  on  the  shoulder  soothingly.) 

There,  there !  Why  I  never  saw  you  so  up 
set  over  anything  before.  We  can't  allow 
that.  I'll  just  lend  you  the  money,  never 
miss  that  in  the  world. 


THE  YOUNGER  SON  53 

Miss  WARD 
Oh,  I  can't  let  you  do  that,  Mr.  Pierce. 

RICHARD 

Well,  isn't  it  worth  that  to  us,  in  our  busy 
season,  not  to  have  to  break  in  a  new  stenog 
rapher? 

Miss  WARD 

Sure,  I  can  see  that  side  of  it.  But  it  cer 
tainly  is  generous  of  you  and  we  can  pay  it 
back  by  September.  Ma  has  some  money 
coming  in  then. 

RICHARD 

Very  well,  we  won't  talk  any  more  about 
it.  You  can  run  home  and  tell  your  mother. 
It's  almost  five  and  you  can  get  that  last  let 
ter  out  in  the  morning. 

HlNTY 

(Opens  the  door  in  the  works  and  one 
hears  the  noise  of  the  factory.)  Mr.  Pierce, 
you  said  you  wanted  to  see  that  piece  of  ma 
chinery  when  we  got  it  going. 

RICHARD 

(Jumping  up.)  All  right,  Hintyl  (He 
goes  out  into  the  works.) 

Miss  WARD 

(With  her  coat  on  and  using  her  vanity 
mirror  and  puff.)  Mr.  John,  your  brother's 
an  awfully  good  looking  man,  ain't  he? 

JOHN 

(Without  looking  up.)  That's  what 
every  one  says. 


54  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

Miss  WARD 

(Continues.)  He  and  that  Miss  Richter 
have  a  terrible  case,  haven't  they? 

JOHN 
(In  astonishment.)     What! 

Miss  WARD 

Gee,  I  hope  I  ain't  telling  anything  I  ought 
not  to. 

JOHN 

(Very  quietly.)  Not  at  all,  Miss  Ward. 
They  must  make  a  very  charming  couple. 

Miss  WARD 

You  know  we  can  look  down  on  the  Coun 
try  Club  Links  where  we  live  and  they're  to 
gether  out  there  nearly  every  evening.  Then 
I've  seen  them  at  the  theatre  a  lot  lately.  I 
can't  just  tell  whether  she's  crazy  about  him 
or  not,  but  from  the  way  he's  rushing  her  and 
him  so  good  looking,  I  don't  see  how  she  can 
helf  herself. 

(John  appears  to  be  very  much  absorbed 
in  his  work.) 

Miss  WARD 

(Realizing  that  the  conversation  is  at 
end.)  Good-night,  Mr.  John. 

JOHN 

(Without  looking  up.)  Good-night,  Miss 
Ward. 

(Richard  rushes  in  from  the  factory t  looks 


THE  YOUNGER  SON  55 

at  the  clock,  hurriedly  locks  his  desk,  and 
quickly  gets  his  cap  and  golf  clubs.) 
RICHARD 

I'm  going  to  be  late.    I've  got  an  engage 
ment  at  5.15.    Don't  need  the  car,  do  you? 
JOHN 

(Jumping  up.)  Wait,  I  want  to  talk  to 
you — 

RICHARD 

(Impatiently.)  I've  got  no  time  for  one 
of  your  talks — 

JOHN 

(Fiercely,  locking  the  door.)  You 
HAVE !  That  clock  is  five  minutes  fast  and 
I'll  not  keep  you  half  that  time.  First  I 
want  to  know  why  you  went  to  my  room  and 
took  that  particular  tie  pin?  You  didn't  like 
it  and  when  Father  gave  it  to  me  to  wear, 
you  laughed  at  it. 

RICHARD 

Well,  it's  not  yours,  it's  Father's,  and  I 
guess  I  have  as  much  right  to  wear  his  things 
as  you  have. 

JOHN 

Certainly  you  have,  but  why  should  you 
put  no  value  on  it  until  you  see  that  I  am  very 
fond  of  it?  And — it's  not  tie  pins  that  I'm 
talking  about,  Richard.  Since  when  did  you 
grow  so  fond  of  Miss  Richter?  You  used  to 
laugh  at  her,  call  her  a  "high  brow"  and  say 


56  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

they  were  "new  rich."  You  never  cared  for 
her  and  you  never  will.  You  saw  I  cared 
for  her  and  she  cared  for  me,  and  as  usual 
you  could  not  bear  to  see  me  get  something  I 
wanted  without  trying  to  show  me  that  you 
could  take  it  away  from  me  if  you  chose. 
You've  done  that  ever  since  we  were  babies. 
You  always  did  it. 

RICHARD 

Well,  if  a  better  man  than  you  can  get 
your  girl,  you  better  brace  up  and  take  it 
like  a  man.  If  you  make  a  fuss  and  go 
around  telling  people,  they'll  give  you  the 
"Ha!  Ha!"  Look  what  Father  and  I  have 
done  for  you.  Made  a  position  for  you  here 
as  assistant  manager  the  minute  you  came  out 
of  college.  It  was  I  that  suggested  it — 

(There  is  a  noise  at  the  door.  Some  one 
tries  to  get  in.  Richard  steps  up  and  un 
locks  it.) 

How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Green,  mighty  glad 
to  see  you.    The  door  caught,  I  suppose. 
MR.  GREEN 

Not  too  late  to  do  a  little  business,  I  hope. 
RICHARD 

(Jocularly.)  Oh,  no,  always  glad  to  at 
tend  to  business.  This  is  my  brother,  Mr. 
John  Pierce,  our  assistant  manager.  He'll 
take  care  of  you.  I  have  an  important  en 
gagement  at  the  Country  Club.  Must  leave 


THE  YOUNGER  SON  57 

— sorry — big  man,  you  know  that  I  want  to 
nail  in  a  little  business  matter,  ha  !  ha !  You 
understand  how  it  is,  don't  you,  Green? 

MR.  GREEN 

Certainly,  Mr.  Pierce.  This  is  out  of 
business  hours.  I'm  only  too  fortunate  to 
find  somebody  here. 

RICHARD 

Good-bye,  Green!  (Shakes  hands  and 
hurries  out.) 

MR.  GREEN 

That  brother  of  yours  is  a  fine,  handsome 
fellow,  honest  as  the  day  and  always  in  good 
spirits.  It  must  be  a  pretty  big  affair  he 
wants  to  land  and  he  must  be  pretty  confident 
about  it. 

JOHN 

(Absorbed  in  the  point  of  his  pen.)  Yes, 
it  is  a  big  affair.  The  consequences  may  be 
great.  He  is  trying  to  take  another  fel 
low's  girl  away  from  him  while  the  other 
fellow  works. 

MR.  GREEN 

Ha !  Ha !  So  that  it,  is  it?  Well,  he'll  win 
out. 

JOHN 

(With  a  quick  breath  of  suffering.)  He 
may  and  he  may  not.  It  depends  entirely 
upon  the  girl. 


58  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

MR.  GREEN 

Well,  this  isn't  business,  is  it?  Now,  I'll 
tell  you  what  I  made  this  trip  for — they're 
opening  a  new  hotel  down  our  way  next  Fall, 
a  year  from  now,  and  they  want  all  the 
furniture  made  to  order.  Can  you  handle 
that? 

JOHN 

I  think  we  can,  Mr.  Green.  Suppose  you 
just  come  with  me  into  the  superintendent's 
room.  My  book  of  plates  is  there  and  there's 
better  light. 

(They  go  out  through  the  door  into  the 
works.     A  very  short  time  after  they  leave, 
Stephen  comes  in  with  a  box  on  wheels  into 
which  he  later  empties  the  trash  baskets.) 
STEPHEN 

(Looks  around  and  negro-like  begins 
talking  to  himself.)  Doah  wide  open  and 
evah  body  gone.  Nobody  round  but  ole 
Stephen.  One  o'  these  heah  evenin's  some 
body  goin'  to  come  in  and  steal  evah  thing 
they  got.  (While  he  is  talking  he  has  emp 
tied  the  basket  under  John's  desk  and  he 
goes  to  empty  the  one  under  Richard's.  He 
holds  the  basket  and  looks  closely  at  the 
blotter  on  the  desk.  He  reads  with  difficul 
ty..  "Oct.  sixteenth,  Miss  Ward,  Richard 
Pierce,  Mgr.  Crescent  Furniture  Co." 

What  fah  is  he  writin'  checks  fah  Miss 


THE  YOUNGER  SON  59 

Ward?  Coin'  with  one  lady  and  writin' 
checks  fah  another  one.  Ole  Stephen,  foah 
he  dies,  he  goin'  to  see  trouble  in  this  heah 
family. 

(The  door  opens  and  Philip  Pierce  en 
ters.  He  is  a  tall,  angular  man,  elderly  but 
well  preserved,  and  with  not  much  regard  for 
his  dress.  He  moves  quickly  and  is  well  in 
side  the  room  before  Stephen  looks  up  from 
the  basket  he  is  emptying.) 
STEPHEN 

(With  delight.)  Well,  'pon  my  wahd,  if 
heah  ain't  Mr.  Philip!  Thought  you's  in 
Australia,  Mr.  Pierce.  When  did  you  all 
get  home? 

PHILIP 

At  noon. 

STEPHEN 

Well,  it  certainly  goin'  be  nice  to  have  you 
all  at  home.  Mr.  John  miss  you.  He  don' 
seem  to  git  on  with  his  Pa  and  Mr.  Richard. 
They  ain't  a  mite  alike.  Mr.  John's  the  nic 
est  man  for  one  o'  them  still  men,  I  evah 
seen.  You  see  I  been  watching  them  boys 
evah  since  they's  children.  They  ain't  nevah 
goin'  to  git  on,  Mr.  Philip. 
PHILIP 

Well,  eh — How's  the  business,  Stephen? 
STEPHEN 

I  ain't  worrin'  about    the    business.      O' 


60  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

course,  I  don'  go  pryin  round  like  some  nig- 
gahs,  but  I  knows  they  has  to  tuhn  'way  some 
o'  they  adahs.  The  output  o'  this  heah  fac 
tory  'creased  'bout  twice  what  it  was  foah 
Mr.  John  come  in  heah. 
PHILIP 

Yon  don't  say!   Good  for  John! 
STEPHEN 

Yes  sah !  I  done  heard  Mr.  Pierce  and  Mr. 
Richard  talking  'bout  it  and  Mr.  Richard, 
he  done  say  that  'ceptin  he  didn't  say  it  was 
since  Mr.  John  came  in — he  jus'  say,  in  the 
las'  two  yeahs.  But  I  ain't  worrin'  'bout  the 
business,  Mr.  Philip  — 
PHILIP 

Good  Lord!  What  are  you  worrying 
about  then? 

STEPHEN 

Well,  I'm  worryin'  'bout  them  boys.  Mr. 
Philip,  they're  goin'  to  be  trouble  in  this  heah 
family.  An'  now,  on  top  of  that  ill-feeling, 
what's  Mr.  Richard  goin'  to  do  but  tryin' 
to  take  Mr.  John's  girl  away  from  him. 
PHILIP 

(Deeply  interested.)  Well,  what  does 
John  say  to  that? 

STEPHEN 

He  seem  perfectly  'blivious  to  it.  I  don't 
think  he  know.  When  he  know  ole  Stephen 
don'  like  t'  think  what  goin'  to  happen.  Mr. 


THE  YOUNGER  SON  61 

John — he  been  workin'  heah  evah  evening 
an'  plumb  into  the  night,  might  neah  mid 
night  for  six  weeks  and  Mr.  Richard,  he 
been  runnin'  out  the  Country  Club  evah 
night  with  that  Miss  Richter.  I  got  a  friend 
out  theah,  a  waitah  an'  he  say  he  can't  fah 
the  life  of  him  tell  whether  she  fallin'  in  love 
with  Mr.  Richard  or  not.  One  time  he  think 
she  am  an'  anotha  time  he  think  she  ain't. 
PHILIP 

How  long's  this  been  going  on? 
STEPHEN 

Might  neah  two  months. 
PHILIP 

H'mm. 

STEPHEN 

That  ain't  all.  He  goin'  round  with  one 
lady  an'  writin'  checks  for  anotha  lady.  I 
ain't  privileged  to  tell  how  I  know,  but  I  got 
mighty  neah  certain  proof  o'  that.  That 
looks  mighty  'spicious  to  me.  (John  and 
Mr.  Green  are  heard  coming  toward  the 
door.  Philip  jumps  up  and  goes  to  meet 
them.) 

MR.  GREEN 

(Coming  through  the  door.}     Well,  now 
after  this  I'd  like  to  do  business  with  you, 
young  man.    You  beat  your  brother  at  it. 
JOHN 

(In  good  spirits.    Quiet  joy  at  seeing  his 


62  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

Uncle  Philip.)  Thank  you,  Mr.  Green. 
Uncle  Philip  I  (Grasping  his  hand.)  I'm 
certainly  glad  to  see  you.  This  is  my  fath 
er's  brother,  Mr.  Pierce,  Mr.  Green. 

MR.  GREEN 

(Shaking  hands.)  Glad  to  see  you,  glad 
to  see  you,  Mr.  Pierce.  You  live  in  the  city? 

PHILIP 
Yes,  I  live  here  when  I'm  not  away — 

MR.  GREEN 

(Looking  at  his  watch.)  Well!  Well! 
I  wonder  if  I  can  catch  that  six-forty  train. 
Good-bye,  young  man.  Good-bye,  Mr. 
Pierce,  glad  to  have  met  you.  (He  goes  out 
hurriedly.} 

(Stephen  lingers  around  a  bit  and  shuf 
fles  out  through  the  factory  door.  Philip  and 
John  sit  down  as  though  preparing  for  a  con 
fidential  chat.) 

PHILIP 

Business  good,  John? 
JOHN 
Fine,  Uncle  Phil. 

PHILIP 

Well — How's  life  going  generally  with 
you? 

JOHN 
As  well  with  me  as  with  any,  I  suppose. 

PHILIP 

H'm — Well,  how  are  you  and  Richard 
getting  along — any  better? 


THE  YOUNGER  SON  63 

JOHN 
(Bitterly.)     Better?  Worse! 

PHILIP 

Sounds  pretty  bad.  Can't  you  tell  me 
about  it?  You  know  when  you  were  a  little 
shaver,  you  used  to  save  up  things  to  tell  me 
when  I  came  home.  Some  times  I  could  put 
things  straight — some  times  I  couldn't.  May 
be  I  could  help  you  now,  lad. 

JOHN 

I  know  I'll  feel  like  a  cad  for  having  said 
this  to  you,  but — My  God!  if  I  don't  say  it 
to  someone,  I'm  afraid  I'll  brood  over  it 
until  the  murder  in  my  heart  will  become  a 
horrible  reality.  Richard's  not  square,  Un 
cle  Phil. 

PHILIP 
Well,  is  that  something  new  to  you? 

JOHN 

No,  he  never  was.  But  I  hoped  as  a  man 
he  would  outgrow  it.  He  hasn't. 

PHILIP 
(Quietly.)      He  never  will. 

JOHN 

When  I  came  out  of  college — in  fact,  be 
fore  I  left  college,  Richard  came  up  to  see 
me.  Said  that  he  had  had  a  talk  with  Fath 
er,  that  he  didn't  want  to  always  stay  in  the 
furniture  business;  that  he  wanted  to  go  in 
to  motor  supplies  and  that  if  I  would  come 


64  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

home  and  go  into  the  factory  as  assistant 
manager,  in  less  than  a  year  I  could  have  the 
position  and  salary  of  manager  and  have  the 
running  of  the  factory  to  myself.  You  know 
I've  always  loved  the  factory.  It's  one  of 
the  first  things  I  remember  and  I'll  do  al 
most  anything  for  love  of  it,  but  I  can't  stand 
things  as  they  are.  Things  haven't  turned 
out  the  way  Richard  said  they  would. 
PHILIP 

They  never  do,  John. 
JOHN 

(Continuing.)  Now,  Dick  says  he  never 
intended  going  into  the  motor  supply  busi 
ness;  that  he  can't  see  where  I  got  such  an 
idea.  So  I  go  on  doing  two-thirds  of  the 
work  and  drawing  one-third  of  the  pay. 
Then,  too,  all  the  money  I've  got  in  the 
world,  the  fifteen  thousand  Mother  left  me, 
is  in  the  factory,  and  if  I  leave  it  (now  that 
Father  is  not  able  to  look  after  things) ,  there 
is  no  telling  what  will  happen  to  my  share  if 
Richard  has  control,  and  he  and  Father  are 
both  against  me.  Then,  there  is  that  tie  of 
blood,  of  family  that  is  really  holding  me 
more  than  anything  else.  It's  strange  how 
it  holds  people  at  times  against  their  wills 
and  against  their  better  judgment. 

PHILIP 
That's  the  pity  of  it.     But  fortunately  it's 


THE  YOUNGER  SON  65 

not  as  strong  in  me  as  it  is  in  you,  John.  I 
was  a  younger  son  too.  Your  father  was 
four  years  older  than  I  and  when  he  started 
this  factory,  he  wanted  me  to  go  in  with  him, 
begged  me  to  do  it,  and  finally  persuaded  me 
by  what  he  promised.  His  promises  were 
never  kept;  said  he  didn't  make  them  and 
finally,  after  seven  years  of  it,  I  walked  out 
one  evening  and  never  came  back.  The  real 
reason  I  left  was  the  same  that  you  have  for 
leaving  now — he  took  my  girl.  That  was 
your  mother,  John.  When  I  came  back,  she 
was  just  a  shadow  of  herself  and  she  told  me 
then  that  she  didn't  love  your  Father;  that 
she  never  had,  and  if  I'd  take  her  back  with 
me  to  Montana,  she  would  leave  him  and 
the  baby  in  a  minute.  The  baby  was  Rich 
ard.  Of  course,  I  couldn't  take  her  and  the 
next  time  I  came  back  home,  she  was  dead 
and  you  were  a  little  shaver  with  her  eyes. 
JOHN 

What  did  Father  do?  I  often  wondered 
why  you  left. 

PHILIP 

(Continuing.)  Well,  by  and  by,  after  I'd 
been  gone  about  two  years,  your  Father 
found  out  where  I  was  and — My!  Such  let 
ters  as  he  wrote.  He  needed  me  and  he  used 
all  his  wits  and  agreeableness  to  get  me  back. 
When  I  wrote  him  what  I  thought  of  him,  he 


66  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

wrote  me  a  letter  that  no  self-respecting  man 
would  answer.  He  wrote  that  I  never  was 
capable  of  loving  anybody  or  anything  and 
that  I  had  no  family  feeling  and  a  great  deal 
more  of  that  sort.  I  want  to  answer  that 
letter  now,  John.  Wouldn't  you  like  to  have 
a  factory  of  your  own? 
JOHN 

That's  an  impossibility,  Uncle    Phil.      In 
the  first  place  I  haven't  the  money. 
PHILIP 

I've  got  the  money,  if  you  will  take  it  from 
me.  You  can  have  it  either  with  interest  or 
without,  as  you  like. 

JOHN 

What  about  my  stock? 
PHILIP 

That'll  sell  easy  enough.  Why,  Crowder, 
from  the  First  National  told  me,  coming  in 
on  the  train,  that  he'd  like  to  have  twenty 
thousand  in  this  factory,  it  was  doing  so 
well.  I'll  sell  your  stock  for  you.  Now  the 
only  question  is,  have  you  got  the  nerve  to 
stand  the  row  and  to  put  Richard  off  when 
he  comes  after  you? 

JOHN 

I'm  ready  to  do  anything  that  will  get  me 
out  from  under  him.  Why  I  feel  as  though 
I  were  cramped,  body  and  mind  and  soul.  I 
can  never  be  myself  without  running  up 


THE  YOUNGER  SON  67 

against  Richard.     He  is  my  brother  but  I 
have  to  try  hard  not  to  hate  him. 

PHILIP 

(Getting  up  and  shaking  out  his  trouser 
legs  while  he  talks.}     There  have  been  more 
younger  sons  ruined  by  their  older  brothers 
than  by  women,  I  take  it. 
JOHN 

(Figuring.}  It  will  take  at  least  forty 
thousand. 

PHILIP 
That  all ! 

JOHN 

Isn't  that  enough?  When  can  I  ever  pay 
it  back? 

PHILIP 

Now,  don't  let  that  worry  you,  son.  I'm 
risking  forty  thousand  to  answer  that  letter 
your  father  wrote  me  so  long  ago.  In  it  he 
said  this.  "Where  there  are  two  brothers, 
the  younger  one  never  amounts  to  anything 
unless  the  older  one  helps  him  to  it."  I've 
lost  twenty-five  thousand  answering  that  let 
ter  in  other  parts  of  the  world  and  I've  made 
fifty.  I  consider  that  I've  made  a  good  in 
vestment  taking  the  thing  as  a  whole,  and  I 
count  the  twenty-five  lost  as  given  to  charity. 
I've  watched  you  since  you  were  a  little 
shaver.  I'll  not  lose  betting  on  you ! 


68  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

JOHN 

(Jumping  up  and  grasping  his  hand.} 
Thank  you  for  that,  Uncle  Phil.  I  could 
run  a  dozen  factories  after  that. 

PHILIP 

Now,  you  better  come  home  to  dinner 
with  me  and  we'll  fix  this  thing  up.  It  is  just 
the  end  of  your  fiscal  year  and  you  can  leave 
the  concern  right  off.  Another  thing,  John, 
my  boy,  you'll  have  to  leave  home.  You  can 
never  stay  there  after  the  row.  Better  come 
and  live  with  me  and  help  me  make  my  ser 
vants  earn  their  pay.  Why,  they've  been 
doing  nothing  but  loafing  and  forwarding 
my  mail  to  me  ever  since  I  went  to  Australia 
last  Fall. 

JOHN 

That's  a  very  fine  offer,  Uncle  Phil.  I'll 
tell  you  what  111  do.  I'll  board  with  you. 

PHILIP 

That  won't  do.  You  must  live  with  me  as 
my  son  would,  if  I  had  one.  I  couldn't  have 
your  mother,  John,  but  maybe  I  can  have  her 
son.  Will  you  come? 

JOHN 
Yes. 

PHILIP 

Come  home  to  dinner  with    me    tonight. 
The  car's  outside.     ( They  put  on  their  coats 
in  silence.    John  puts  out  the  light.} 
Curtain 


SCENE  II 

(The  office  of  The  John  Pierce  Manu 
facturing  Company.  Six  months  elapse  be 
tween  Scene  I  and  Scene  II.  When  the  cur 
tain  rises  an  office,  very  much  like  the  office 
in  Scene  I  is  seen,  only  everything  looks  new 
er  and  there  is  no  assistant  manager's  desk. 
It  is  about  four  in  the  afternoon  and  John  is 
still  at  work  in  his  office.  The  street  door 
opens  suddenly  and  his  father  enters.  He  is 
a  man  about  seventy  and  enters  with  diffi 
culty  because  of  infirmities.  He  leans  heavily 

upon  his  cane.} 

\ 

JOHN 

(Turning  his  head  and  jumping  up.} 
Why,  Father! 

MR.  PIERCE 

(Gruffly.  Stopping  a  moment  to  get  his 
breath.}  Yes,  it's  me.  And  do  you  know 
what  I've  come  for?  I  came  to  ask  you  to 
come  back  to  your  right  mind  and  do  your 
duty  to  your  old  father,  and  to  have  a  Chris 
tian  spirit  toward  your  brother.  (He  sits 
down  heavily  in  the  nearest  chair.}  Where's 
your  stenographer? 

JOHN 

I  let  her  go  a  little  earlier  this  evening. 
There  was  nothing  just  now  for  her  to  do. 
69 


70  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

As  for  what  you  ask  of  me — MY  duty  is  to 
stay  right  here  in  MY  factory. 

MR.  PIERCE 
Your  Uncle's,  you  mean. 

JOHN 
No,  mine ! 

MR.  PIERCE 

(Pointing  with  his  cane  to  the  office 
door.)  That  name  up  there  don't  fool  any 
body.  (Contemptuously.)  "THE  JOHN 
PIERCE  MANUFACTURING  CO." 
How  much  did  he  lend  you  ? 

JOHN 

(Irritated.)  Forty  thousand.  Is  there 
anything  more  you  would  like  to  ask? 

MR.  PIERCE 

Yes,  I  want  to  know  how  much  longer  you 
are  going  to  continue  to  take  our  business 
away. 

JOHN 

I'm  not  taking  your  business  away,  Fath 
er.  All  the  names  on  our  books  with  the  ex 
ception  of  the  firm  Green  represents  are  new 
names.  The  furniture  industry  here  is 
growing.  You  have  the  advantage  of  me. 
You  are  an  old  and  well  established  firm. 
Why  should  I  take  your  business  away? 

MR.  PIERCE 

Well,  you  are.  Last  month  The  Cres 
cent  Furniture  Company  lost  for  the  first 


THE  YOUNGER  SON  7: 

time  since  it  started  twenty-two  years  ago. 
How  do  you  account  for  that  if  you  are  not 
taking  our  business  away? 
JOHN 
Who's  acting  as  assistant  manager  now? 

MR.  PIERCE 

Nobody !  We  had  two  in  there  and  they 
said  they  wouldn't  stay  for  twice  the  salary. 
Don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  them ! 

JOHN 

(Quietly.)  I  do.  They  had  no  family 
ties  to  hold  them. 

MR.  PIERCE 

I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about. 
But  I  do  know  that  you're  a  cruel,  ungrate 
ful  son  and  you're  going  to  kill  me  long  be 
fore  my  time. 

JOHN 
I'm  sorry  if  I've  hurt  you. 

MR.  PIERCE 

Sorry!  You  never  were  sorry  for  any 
thing!  You've  always  shown  this  spirit 
toward  your  brother  and  me.  You  haven't 
a  particle  of  affection  in  you.  You're  like 
your  mother — 

JOHN 

(Quickly.)  Stop,  Father!  That's  not  so! 
Mother  was  affectionate !  I  remember  that 
better  than  anything  else.  If  she  showed  no 


72  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

affection  for  you,  it  was  you  that  made  it  im- 
posible  for  her. 

MR.  PIERCE 

So  it's  me,  is  it?  And  it  takes  a  young 
Jack  a-napes  of  an  ungrateful  son  to  tell  me 
so.  My  God,  what's  the  world  coming  to? 

JOHN 

(Quietly.)  Richard  has  hurt  you  some 
way.  You  always  wanted  to  take  it  out  on 
me  when  Richard  troubled  you.  Where  is 
he? 

MR.  PIERCE 

The  Lord  only  knows.  He's  at  the  fac 
tory  only  about  half  the  time.  Last  night  I 
found  him  up  at  Barton's,  gambling.  He'd 
been  drinking  and  when  I  wanted  him  to  go 
home,  he  got  up  and  took  me  to  the  door, 
and  when  the  door  was  closed  and  we  were 
in  the  hall,  he  said,  "Don't  make  a  fool  of 
yourself,  Father.  A  man  has  to  do  this  for 
business  and  if  you've  got  any  money  about 
you,  you'd  better  leave  it  with  me.  I'm 
broke.  I  left  him  all  I  had  and  I  haven't  seen 
him  since.  I  don't  know  where  he  is. 
JOHN 

Probably  sleeping  somewhere.  Did  you 
call  the  Country  Club? 

MR.  PIERCE 

No,  I  didn't  want  anyone  to  know  I  was 
hunting  him. 


THE  YOUNGER  SON  73 

JOHN 

I  suppose  you  want  me  to  go  hunt  him  up 
quietly. 

MR.  PIERCE 

(Irritably.)  What  else  would  I  be  com 
ing  here  for? 

JOHN 

I  see.  Well,  that  I  can't  do.  I  can't  trust 
myself  to  see  Richard.  (He  turns  again  to 
his  desk  but  he  is  unable  to  resume  his  work.) 

MR.  PIERCE 
Well,  are  you  going? 
JOHN 
NO! 

MR.  PIERCE 

(Getting  up.)  I  suppose  it's  the  grudge 
you've  got  against  your  brother  for  taking 
your  girl  away! 

JOHN 

(Without  looking  up.)  Yes,  if  you  want 
to  put  it  that  way. 

MR.  PIERCE 
Haven't  you  any  family  pride? 

JOHN 
I  hope  so! 

MR.  PIERCE 

Well,  for  God's  sake,  get  to  work  and 
show  a  little.  Show  a  little  affection  for  your 
brother.  Show  a  little  decency  and  family 
pride. 


74  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

JOHN 

(Excitedly.}  Oh,  will  people  never  learn 
that  there  is  something  beyond  family  pride 
and  family  ties  and  blood  and  affection  and 
that  is  justice?  YOU  and  Richard  have 
never  known  it.  Two-thirds  of  the  people 
who  walk  on  the  street  out  there  demand  it 
in  the  courts  and  are  blind,  stone  blind  to  it 
in  their  homes.  I  mean  to  live  it!  I  mean 
to  teach  it!  I  intend  to  demand  it  the  rest 
of  my  life  whether  I  have  anything  else  or 
not. 

MR.  PIERCE 

(Disgusted.}     Are  you  going,  John? 
JOHN 

No! 

MR.  PIERCE 

Damn  you!    You're  no  son  of  mine! 
JOHN 

(Dryly.}  Thank  you  for  the  compli 
ment! 

( The  door  slams  and  Mr.  Pierce  is  gone. 
John  sinks  wearily  down  at  his  desk  with 
his  head  in  his  hands.  The  office  has  grown 
almost  dark  while  he  and  his  father  are  talk 
ing.  The  door  opens  softly  and  Margaret 
Richter  comes  in.  She  closes  the  door  softly 
and  stands  against  it.  John  turns  wearily 
with  a  sigh  toward  the  door.} 


THE  YOUNGER  SON  75 

JOHN 

(In  a  whisper  of  surprise  and  unbelief.} 
Margaret! 

MARGARET 

(In  a  calm,  matter-of-fact  tone.}  Yes, 
John,  it's  I. 

JOHN 

(Coming  forward  a  little.}  What  are  you 
doing  here  at  this  time  of  day?  You  mustn't 
come  here.  What  is  it  you  want? 

MARGARET 

(A  little  disappointed.}  I  came  to  tell 
you  something,  John. 

JOHN 

I  know.  Father  was  just  here.  Do  you 
want  me  to  go  after  Richard?  If  YOU  ask 
me,  I'll  go. 

MARGARET 

No,  I  don't  want  you  to  go  after  Richard. 
I  know  where  Richard  is. 

JOHN 
Where? 

MARGARET 
In  his  own  little  bed,  asleep. 

JOHN 
How  did  he  get  there? 

MARGARET 

As  perhaps  you  know.  I  have  a  younger 
brother  who  will  do  almost  anything  for 
money.  I  paid  the  kid  ten  dollars  to  get 


76  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

Richard  into  the  hands  of  your  Jap,  Tokio, 
without  letting  people  know. 

JOHN 

That  was  very  fine  of  you,  Margaret.  I 
fear  you  may  have  to  do  it  again  if  you 
marry  him. 

MARGARET 

I'm  not  going  to  marry  him.  I  took  great 
pains  to  get  him  to  propose  to  me  so  I  could 
refuse  him.  He  said  he'd  go  to  the  dogs  if 
I  didn't  marry  him.  Now,  I  suppose  he 
thinks  he'll  scare  me  into  it.  I  know  Richard. 

JOHN 

(Coming    forward     hopefully.}       Then, 
why  may  I  ask,  did  you  think  it  your  duty  to 
get  him  home  in  that  way? 
MARGARET 

For  the  sake  of  the  family.  You  see,  I've 
grown  very  fond  of  your  Uncle  Philip.  I've 
seen  quite  a  good  deal  of  him  since  he  came 
back. 

JOHN 

(Backing  of.)  You  don't  mean  he  has 
been  calling  on  you. 

MARGARET 
Ye— s. 

JOHN 

(With  surprise.)  Oh!  (Gathering  his 
wits  after  the  first  shock.}  He's  a  little  old 
for  you,  Margaret,  but  Uncle  Phil  is  a  very 
fine  man.  Let  me  congratulate  you — 


THE  YOUNGER  SON  77 

MARGARET 

(Holding  up  her  hand.)     No,  I'm  not  to 
be  congratulated — yet — 
JOHN 
I  see  things  are  not  quite  settled. 

MARGARET 

(Shaking  her  head  doubtfully.)  No, 
things  are  not  quite  settled,  John.  You  make 
it  very  hard  for  me.  Your  Uncle  Phil  has 
told  me  a  great  deal — 

JOHN 

(Breaking  in.)  Would  you  like  me  to 
speak  to  him? 

MARGARET 

(Hopelessly,  but  amused.)  No,  but  I'd 
like  him  to  speak  to  you.  He's  the  brightest 
man  for  never  having  been  trained  by  a  wo 
man  I  ever  saw.  (Indulgently.)  John, 
you're  awfully  stupid. 

JOHN 

(Much  abashed.)  I  know  it,  Margaret. 
Women  are  much  brighter  than  men,  aren't 
they? 

MARGARET 
About  some  things  they  certainly  are. 

JOHN 

(With  sudden  courage.)  There's  some 
thing  I  want  to  tell  you,  Margaret,  before — 
before  you  belong  to  any  other  man — I — I 
(Turning  away.)  Oh,  no,  I  can't  do  that — 


78  TWO  PLAYS  AND  A  PREFACE 

MARGARET 

(Slowly  and  coming  closer.)  Do  you  love 
me,  John? 

JOHN 

(Softly.)     Yes,  Margaret. 
MARGARET 

That's  exactly  what  I  came  to  hear. 
JOHN 

(Looks  up  questioningly,  then  being  re 
assured,  a  great  light  seems  to  dawn  on  him, 
holding  out  his  arms  to  her.)  Margaret! 
Margaret! 

(He  is  just  coming  to  embrace  her  when 
Stephen  suddenly  opens  the  street  door.) 
STEPHEN 

(Not  seeing  well  in  the  dusk.)  Mr.  John, 
youh  Pa  done  say —  (He  suddenly  realizes 
the  situation) — Scuse  me!! 

(John  and  Margaret  turn  at  the  interrup 
tion   and  look   toward  the   door.     When  it 
closes  they  both  laugh  and  then  laugh  more 
as  he  goes  away  singings) 
"Glory,  to  God,  there's  a  good  time  comin', 
I  see  it  drawin'  nigh! 
Glory  to  God!  That  good  time  comin' 
Means  joy  in  the  sweet  by  and  by." 

(As  the  singing  becomes  more  and  more 
inaudible,  the  curtain  falls.) 


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